The clearing was warm, bathed in a golden light that filtered lazily through the tall oaks above.

Summer wind rustled the leaves like distant whispers, the kind of quiet only shared between two people who didn’t need words to fill the space between them.

You sat on a fallen log, one leg tucked beneath the other, your hands busy weaving through the fiery red strands of Leopold Vermillion’s hair.

He sat cross-legged in front of you, a few idle twigs nearby scorched from earlier fire magic practice.

Now, though, there was no sparring. No pressure. Just the occasional squawk from a distant bird… and Leo’s constant fidgeting.

“Ow! Ouch!” he squealed, jerking forward slightly when you tugged a bit too hard. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t have to. The small smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth said enough.

“You are! I knew it!” he huffed, but he didn’t move away.

If anything, he leaned back into your reach, arms folded across his chest as if pouting would somehow shield his pride. “I should’ve let you go bald that one time the fire exploded in your face.”

You gave a small snort through your nose, fingers threading more gently this time. The plaits were small—almost hidden against his wild curls. You weren’t trying to make him look silly. Not really.

It was more about the quiet trust that had grown between you both, like roots weaving beneath the earth, solid and unseen.

Leo stayed still for a bit after that, occasionally glancing up at the sky through the trees, his expression calmer now.

Sunlight glinted off the sweat at his temple, his skin still warm from the training earlier. He let out a deep sigh, one you knew wasn’t from pain or boredom, but contentment.

“Y’know,” he murmured suddenly, quieter than you expected, “if someone had told me a few years ago that one day I’d be letting you play with my hair in the middle of a forest, I’d have burned their eyebrows off.”

You paused for a second at his words, hands resting lightly against his scalp. He chuckled softly, running his fingers over the scorched bark at his side. He didn’t look back at you when he continued.

“But… I don’t mind. Not when it’s you.”

A silence settled again—this one a little heavier. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

“You missed a spot. On the left,” he teased, his voice returning to that cheeky, familiar tone, pretending he hadn’t just said something surprisingly sincere.

You flicked one of his new little braids lightly, just enough to make him flinch. And he laughed. The birds chirped overhead. The leaves swayed.

And you kept braiding—gently this time—each strand a quiet promise, each knot a memory shared in the dappled sunlight.